Composure
by tinseltowns
Summary: So, there he sat, at the cluttered desk in his even more cluttered room, trying to think of something simple to write to 'everyone'.


_Dear everyone-_

_I hate you._

Eli paused as he examined the words he'd just written on the page. 'Seriously? I hate you? That's the best you, Eli Goldsworthy, can do?' he thought, grimacing. Why was he even bothering to write anything in the first place? What was the real point in all of this?

Oh, right.

Therapy.

Stupid, god damn therapy, with the stupid, god damn therapist who wrote little notes about his sanity (or lack thereof) in her stupid, god damn black notebook. She was the one who wanted him to 'document', as she so professionally called it, what he was thinking. She told him to write a letter to someone. So he responded with, "Who?" to which she answered, "Anyone." He'd mentally rolled his eyes, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Anyone? So, for instance, it could mean everyone?" Then she'd looked confused for a moment, but then remembered she should appear to know everything that anyone could possibly know, and nodded, unnecessarily fixing her glasses (he assumed she wanted to feel more intelligent, when in reality, it made her look stupid).

So, there he sat, at the cluttered desk in his even more cluttered room, trying to think of something simple to write to 'everyone'. Unsatisfied, he scribbled out the "I hate you" sprawled across the left side of the paper in his near-illegible handwriting. "Great," he muttered, chewing on the corner of the ballpoint pen. All he could think about was how impossible it would be to explain to his therapist why he hadn't written down anything. Of course, he could always pull the 'breakdown' card, but that would lead to more problems than he had the patience for. He could write something completely bogus, about how he loved every creature on God's green earth (gag) and wanted to change for the better.

But that was only half-true; in some sense, he did want to change, or 'get better' as everyone else called it. But he didn't' want to do it for himself, like they said he should've been, or to have his parents or the therapist give him a gold star for no longer being insane. There were two other reasons.

To get everyone out of his head.

For her.

She was why he'd even agreed to go to this stupid clinic in the first place, so he could assure her that they could be 'normal' or whatever. She was the reason why he saw that damned woman every week instead of swallowing shitloads of pills; so any that he couldn't tell right from left. For the record, he almost did opt to be a drug-enduced zombie, but then she'd shown up at is doorstep, begging him to get some sort of therapist. Unfortunately, there was no way in hell he could bring himself to say no to her.

"Dude, you're so whipped," Adam would muse, making kissy faces at him, but shut up after a pillow collided with his beanie-clad head. That would usually keep him quiet, but only for a few minutes at best (he did it so often, Eli began to question out loud why he was still friends with him, to which Adam responded, "Because you need someone to eat your food."). Eli was breathing a little more heavily at this point, and started to wonder if they should've put him on some sort of anxiety medication. HE came to the conclusion rather quickly that it would've just made his overall stance within the gossip-filled halls of Degrassi, or Hell, as he liked to call it, even worse Hell, where the demons were it's students, and Satan himself wasn't just himself; he resided in every one of them, even him. However, it was widely accepted that he had found a stronger connection with his piece of Satan than any other had recently. 'Untrue' was the first, instinctual answer, but as he fell more and more vulnerable to the captor of his mind, that answer became a more and more unclear to him.

Was he actually becoming evil? Was Satan reaching the crucial pieces of his mind? Or had it already happened subconsciously?

Thinking about the possibility of total darkness within himself wasn't helping to write this letter. It merely made him more and more aware that his quick-fix drug idea wasn't an option to begin with. Without realizing it at first, he had begun to write words on the paper. Those words began to string themselves into sentences with the help of punctuation, and formed something that resembled a letter.

_Dear Everyone-_

_Stereotypes will be the inevitable death of you all. Labeling yourselves as 'popular' or 'jock' or 'nerd' won't matter when you're in a life or death situation. Being Goth won't make a difference when you're being told you have terminal cancer, and being gay won't stop you from taking a wrong turn and crashing your car. _

_So why do all of you assholes have to hang a sign around everyone's necks? Why have I suddenly become the human embodiment of the devil? Why have you turned me into something that, last time I checked, I wasn't? Why have you shunned me, and turned me into something that no one in their right mind would speak to, or let alone look at? I'll admit this; I have issues far more serious than having the ability not to give a damn if you think it's creepy that I drive (or drove) a hearse to school every day. _

_I'm not as 'mentally stable' as the rest of you. But, really, there is no stability when it comes to our minds. We're all 'crazy' in our own ways. We, also, have our reasons for being crazy, or why we act the way we do. We all have things that mold us and shape us into the humans we are today. Some of the things we do can be stupid and fucked up and in the heat of the moment, but that's life. We all make mistakes, even the best of us. That's how we learn. My mistakes? I'm still learning. _

_But not all of your mistakes are as bad as mine._

_-Eli_


End file.
